


oh my heart hurts so good

by thewestwinged



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Jewish Character, M/M, Season/Series 02, Sickfic, spoilers for the princess bride???, they are dumb and in love! and extremely valid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewestwinged/pseuds/thewestwinged
Summary: “You haven’t been allergy-sneezing,” Peter says. “You’ve been pre-cold sneezing at best.”Sam gives him a Look, somewhere between 'that’s kind of weird that you know that' and 'that’s kind of sweet that you know that'. Gonzo is giving him a Look, too, except his is entirely the former.(bellevue is much colder than oceanside. it was bound to happen at some point.)





	oh my heart hurts so good

Something Peter frequently takes for granted is just how well he knows Sam Ecklund.

For example: even before they started dating, Peter knew Sam’s orders from their five most frequented restaurants by heart. He knows Sam’s texting style, to the point where he can deduce the other boy’s tone simply from a lack of or an excess of punctuation. And, more relevantly, he can tell the difference between Sam’s different kinds of sneezes.

“You’re getting sick,” Peter says, after the fourth time that morning Sam had stepped away to grab a tissue from the adjacent classroom. They’ve been filming pretty much nonstop for the past couple of days, after their first breakthrough regarding DeMarcus, and while neither of them are really at their best as a result, it’s like Peter said. Sneezes.

Sam sniffles. “Nah, it’s probably just allergies.”

“You haven’t been allergy-sneezing,” Peter explains. “You’ve been pre-cold sneezing at _best_.”

Sam gives him a Look, somewhere between _that’s kind of weird that you know that_ and _that’s kind of sweet that you know that_. Gonzo is giving him a Look, too, except his is entirely the former.

“You’re kind of a dork, you know that?” Sam says, but his tone is soft and he’s wearing the kind of smile that lets Peter know he’s joking. “I’m fine, Peter.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says, but he knows he doesn’t sound convinced.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sam says. “I swear to god. My immune system is like, the Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson of immune systems.”

So they get back to filming. The worry fades into the back of Peter’s mind, like most worries do when he’s behind a camera. Until, of course, they’re thanking Gonzo for his time and starting to pack up, and Sam straight up _sways_ , thudding against the wall with a dull thunk. Peter and Michael, their lights and sound guy, rush to his side.

Sam rights himself pretty quickly, but that doesn’t stop Peter from pressing the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead, and wincing. “Babe, you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” Sam insists, but he’s looking kinda pale, which is really saying something, so it’s not that reassuring.

He frowns. “You’re _not_ fine, Sam, you’re - you’re really warm.” He doesn’t say anything about anxiety and compulsive fixing just like Sam doesn’t say anything about ADHD and how much he hates being confined to bed. They both know.

“Why don’t we call it for today,” Angie, their camerawoman, suggests. “You can go home and rest, and we’ll pick back up tomorrow if you’re feeling alright.” Peter looks to Sam for confirmation. After all, it is his choice.

“Okay,” Sam says. And then he turns to Peter, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a tired little half-smirk. “Are you gonna play nurse?”

Peter feels himself flush, and he instinctively ducks his head in the way his mom always says makes him look like a turtle. “Dude, shut up.”

From behind them, Angie laughs, kind of amused and kind of just nervous, like this is exactly everything she hadn’t signed up for. “Okay, we’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Nothing really of note happens for the rest of the day. Peter makes sure Sam always has a glass of water next to him, but mostly they just watch assorted episodes of Monster Factory while Sam tries to pretend he isn’t dead tired. When they officially go to bed, Sam tangles around him in the way they do when neither of them can decide who should be the big spoon.

Which is why it’s so strange when Peter wakes up with his arms empty.

There’s a noise coming from the bathroom, is the first thing he notices. It’s also two in the morning. Creepy noises, two in the morning, and he doesn’t know where Sam is - Peter scrambles out of bed and rushes to the bathroom.

The light is on and the door is open, and Sam is kneeling in front of the toilet with hands braced, and - oh.

Peter doesn’t know whether to be grossed out or concerned or sympathetic, so he settles on a mixture of the three. He sits down on the tile, reaches out to - to put a hand on Sam’s back, or something, but Sam holds a very tense finger up and Peter freezes halfway there. Just kind of tries not to watch as Sam finishes coughing and flushes the toilet, looking absolutely defeated.

“You... okay?” Peter asks, keeping his voice low.

Sam grimaces. “Been better,” he says, and then coughs, and then grimaces again. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap.”

“I think I can forgive you,” Peter says, but he puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, in case the joke wasn’t clear.

“Must have been something I ate,” Sam continues, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up. “I bet I’ll feel fine by tomorrow.” He tries to get up, and kind of trembles with the effort.

“Sam,” Peter sighs. “Just-” He takes Sam’s arm in his hand, and runs his fingers down it, feather-light.

Sam flinches back. “Ow.”

“Body aches,” Peter says. “Vomiting, fever, sneezing. What do these sound like symptoms of?”

It’s like all the air goes out of Sam, all at once. He sinks into himself, leans against the tile of the bathroom wall. “Yeah, okay.” He sniffs, a little, drawing his hands back into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. Rests his chin on folded knees. “I can take the other bed.”

Peter blinks. “Wait, what?”

They’re solid, the two of them - they talk through their issues mostly like adults, and Peter knows the stuff that ticks Sam off. So, the suggestion makes his stomach drop like a bag of bricks. Did he miss something? Did he mess something up?

Sam hunches further, if such a thing is possible. “I’m sick,” he explains, slow. “The flu is, like, super contagious.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Oh.” The relief washes over him, little waves at low tide. And then he scoots over so he’s sitting next to Sam, squished between the sink and the toilet, and does his best to wrap his arms around him.

“Dude, what are you-”

“I got my flu shot,” Peter says. And he’s trying not to laugh, he really is, but it’s so fucking late and he’s tired. “Way back in December. And I kept trying to get _you_ to come with me, and you were always like-”

Sam sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I live in California, I won’t get the flu.” He tucks his head against Peter’s shoulder, and then sort of freezes. “Babe.” Peter hums.

“I think I’m gonna throw up again.”

About ten minutes later, they make it back to bed, one of the plastic bowls from the kitchen balanced on the nightstand. Sam is out like a light, curled up into Peter’s side, fingers wrapped around the hem of Peter’s pajama shirt. Peter sends a quick text to Michael - _Sorry for texting so late, but Sam is sick, and I think we might be sleeping in tomorrow. Any chance you could bring some soup & matzo ball mix over tomorrow morning? Thanks, -Peter _ (Sam always makes fun of him for punctuating his texts like business emails). He puts his phone next to the bowl and curls back around his boyfriend. Like parenthesis.

That’s the last thought he has before he falls asleep.

 

Sam is still conked out by the time Peter wakes up, around noon, so he’s extra careful not to disturb him getting out of bed.  Michael apparently had stopped by, earlier, because there’s a ShopRite bag on the kitchen counter, along with a Post-It note that says ‘ _Hope Sam feels better soon :)_ ’. 

Peter wouldn’t call himself an _amazing_ chef, per se, but he’s not bad, especially considering all the practice he’s gotten after Sam and him got sick of delivery. At the least, he trusts himself to reheat the can of Campbell's® Chunky™ Healthy Request Chicken Noodle Soup Michael had left him. Beyond that, though...

Last winter, Sam had brought him to Chanukah dinner at the Ecklund house. Basically all of his (pretty huge) extended family had been there, but it had actually been a really nice time. Sam’s family is easy to like. During dinner preparations, Sam’s grandmother had pulled him over to the stovetop and taught him how to make matzo balls, the rules of which were pretty easy to remember: 1. no one can tell if you use a mix, 2. there’s no such thing as ‘too big’, and 3. make them in water because if you cook them in the soup they will soak _all_ of it up and you will be left with salty matzo balls and no soup at all.

She also mentioned that matzo ball soup was a great cure for colds, and. Well, even if it isn’t, soup and light carbs are easy to get down, and maybe Sam will want something that reminds him of home. So Peter starts boiling some water.

Sam wanders in just as he’s beginning to spoon the matzo balls out. He’s shuffling along the wooden floors, dragging his feet, but he seems to perk up once he sees Peter at the stove. “Oh my god,” he says, and his voice sounds like hell, but there’s a surprised little grin on his face. “Dude, you made me soup.”

“I didn’t actually make the soup,” Peter excuses. “But I did make these.” He holds up the hand-held strainer, in which sits a matzo ball about the size of his fist.

Sam opens his mouth, and then shuts it. And then opens it again. His eyes are like shiny little saucers. “I.”

It is a rare occurrence to see Sam Ecklund speechless. Peter isn’t sure if it's a good thing or not. Personally, he - well, he likes it when Sam talks.

“Do… do you want some?” He asks.

“Hell yes,” Sam says, immediately snapping out of whatever state he’d been in. “Abso- _lute_ ly.”

Peter brings a bowl over to the table, and tries not to nervously hover as Sam grabs a spoon and digs in.

“ _God_ ,” Sam groans. “These are really fucking good, dude.”

Peter can’t help it. He grins, feels the compliment light him up from the inside out, like a lantern. “Thanks,” he manages.

“Seriously,” Sam continues. He looks over at Peter with the shy kind of nose-wrinkling smile he gets when he’s being really, really genuine. “This was… this was really nice of you. Like, as soon as I get better, I’m gonna kiss you all over your… your stupid cute face.”

Peter snorts. He spoons some soup into his own bowl, and sits down next to Sam at the table. “Sap,” he says.

“Yeah, says you,” Sam retorts. “You made me _matzo balls_.”

Well, Peter can’t really argue with that.

They spend the rest of the day in bed, Sam drifting in and out of sleep, and Peter annotating his way through _The Bell Jar_. Around 8:00, he glances to his left, feels his gaze soften.

Sam is mid-yawn, hand slung over his eyes. “Peter,” he mumbles, blinking, a slow smile crossing his face.

“Yeah,” Peter says. He sets his book and pen down, smooths a gentle hand through the hair stuck to Sam’s forehead.

“Peter,” Sam continues. “Pete, babe, I feel like… an on-fire garbage can.”

“Could be a nursery,” Peter responds, almost instinctively.

Sam laughs, a sunshine and Saturdays kind of thing. The huffy little giggle that follows, the pink flush to his cheeks, the top of his ears, it’s genuinely almost too cute for Peter to handle. The amount of restraint it takes for Peter to refrain from kissing him is, frankly, astounding. “We should get to sleep,” he says instead, brushing Sam’s bangs aside.

“Been trying,” Sam says. His face scrunches, nose wrinkling. “It’s like. Too hot and then too cold, and my brain won’t shut up?”

Peter hums, considering. He rubs idly at Sam’s forehead with his thumb. When Peter is sick, he likes to lie down alone in a very dark room and sleep until he’s completely better. Sam, on the other hand, gets anxious when he spends too long without doing anything. As Peter has learned over their many years of friendship, if you want Sam to rest, you have to trick him into it. “We could watch a movie,” Peter suggests, trying for subtlety. “The Princess Bride?”

Either he’s getting better at acting, or Sam is too tired to see through his obvious attempt at distraction. He just grins up at Peter, all soft and sleepy and painfully beautiful. “Dude, you’re my _favorite_.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. “You only keep me around for my excellent taste in cinema, huh,” he says, eyes flickering off into the middle distance.

Usually, the bit will play out a little longer, and Sam will poke fun of at least three of Peter’s favorite indie movies, and then Peter will retaliate with the one time Sam mentioned off-hand that he thought Adam Sandler’s _Pixels_ was ‘actually not that bad.’ Now, though, Sam just frowns, forehead creasing the way it does when he thinks Peter is being genuinely self deprecating. “Aw, no,” he says, clambering into a sitting position. He kind of falls all over Peter’s lap in the process, and the sincerity on his face is either really funny or really fucking adorable, Peter can’t quite decide. His hands curl around Peter’s chin, and he presses their foreheads together in a move of delirious earnestness. “Pete, I _love_ you.”

Peter tries to hold in his laughter and mostly succeeds. He presses a kiss to Sam’s forehead, and the heat is concerning but not, like, emergency-concerning, so he takes Sam’s hands in his and just sort of holds him. “I love you too, Sammy,” he says. “Come on, lie back down. I’ll get my laptop.”

Sam collapses back onto the bed, looking entirely self-satisfied. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re the best boyfriend in the world!” He calls out.

Peter refrains from making a remark about incredibly low standards. He grabs his laptop, a couple bottles of water, because of course the Lymans insist on them using the Fiji bottles in the fridge instead of drinking from the tap, and a packet of oyster crackers from the ShopRite bag. When he re enters Sam’s bedroom, his boyfriend is messing around on 2048 Solitaire, all concentrated and squinty, and Peter is once again struck with a wave of affection so strong it nearly knocks him over. Because this - Sam curled around a throw pillow, ungelled hair falling into his eyes, tongue slightly stuck out in concentration - this is _his_.

Peter flops back down onto the bed. He kisses the corner of Sam’s jaw, just because he can, even though it feels a bit like tempting fate. “Ready, babe?”

Sam shuts his phone off, tucks himself into Peter’s side. “Mhm.”

He’s asleep by the time Buttercup gets kidnapped, Peter can tell, because he doesn’t quote a single line of the exchange. Endlessly careful, he closes his laptop and sets it down next to the bed. Sam mumbles, but doesn’t wake up, just buries his face into Peter’s stomach and sighs.

All in all, Peter thinks, not as terrible as his dad used to make it out to be, whenever Peter got sick. Of course, he would much rather Sam be healthy, and the vomit was gross, but getting to take care of his boyfriend was kind of nice. Especially when it was usually the other way around, Sam making sure that he didn’t stay up too late, or that he ate real meals in between editing sessions.

Sam mumbles something in his sleep, and Peter smiles. Turns off the light.

 

“Guess what,” Sam says. He’s bouncing, almost, raised up on his toes, hands braced against the counter. “Pete, baby, my favorite documentarian, my partner in solving crime-” 

Peter turns around to face him. “What’s up?”

It took a couple days for Sam to get over the worst of the flu, and even then, the doctor the Lymans had them visit said they should be careful for at least another week, until the virus was completely gone. It’s been about that time, and it’s not like Peter’s dying to kiss his boyfriend, or anything, but lately everything Sam does makes his heart speed up like he’s running the Fitnessgram Pacer Test.

Case in point - Sam grins, and there’s a little quirk to his eyebrow that makes Peter’s stomach jump two feet. “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health,” he says. “I am totally, 100% flu-free.”

Peter smiles, feels the last vestiges of that particular worry bleed from his mind. “That’s awesome, Sammy.”

He turns back to the brownie batter. A moment later, he feels Sam press up against his back, hook his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “You know what that means?” He asks, and it’s kind of unfair, the way his voice sends these little shivers down Peter’s spine.

Peter tilts his head to the side. They’re breathing the same air, now, and Sam’s eyes are… really pretty. “We can share silverware again?” He says, like an idiot.

Sam snorts, ducking his head down into the juncture between Peter’s neck and shoulder. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright, bright, cheeks sort of rosy. “Obviously first priority,” he agrees, sagely.

But Peter doesn’t want him to get any wrong ideas. So he sets the batter down, cups Sam’s face with both of his hands, and kisses him.

Sam leans into him immediately, one arm wrapping around his waist. He makes a soft, happy noise, half-sigh and half-hum, and _god_ , okay, it’s been like a week, he shouldn’t have missed this _that_ much.

Peter grins, then, and Sam grins back, and that makes it pretty hard to keep kissing, but they sort of manage until Sam’s lips somehow end up on Peter’s front teeth. They break apart, bursting into laughter, but Sam keeps his arms solid around Peter’s waist.

“I have to put the brownies in the oven,” Peter mumbles.

Sam kisses his nose, and then the side of his mouth, the inner corner of his eye. “Consider this,” he says. “I promised I would, and quote, kiss you all over your stupid cute face.” Cheek, forehead, temple. “Which, in my opinion, takes clear priority over the brownies.”

Peter pretends to consider, for a moment, raising a dramatic eyebrow.

Sam giggles, and then kisses the look off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> part of this kind of became a recipe and im not sure how i feel about that but. You Know
> 
> angie and michael belong to the lovely user phonecallfromgod - thank you so much for letting me use them!
> 
> i listened to the stripped version of ILYSB by LANY like. the Entire time writing this fic so if u want a soundtrack! 
> 
> i'm at @foxglovefemme on tumblr come talk to me !!!


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